“You are such a dork.” I guffaw, wrapping my arms around him.
I know he says I just need to finish, but imagine his face if I run every mile of this race. If I place in the top fifty for my age/gender category. Better yet, if I match the times of some of the more experienced blind runners in the group. Though, given the fifty-two minute time Sonora ran in her New Year’s Day race a month ago, it seems far-fetched for me to match or exceed that time.
“Speaking of shirts, I see your guide has his ownspecialone on.” Anker snorts.
“Oh god.” I cringe, “Please tell me you didnotmake Garrett wear a shirt with my face on it.”
Mortification blazes through me at the idea of my face on Garrett’s body. Although, something else ignites at the image ofmy actual face pressed against his naked chest. The last week of only seeing each other for training hasn’t cooled off my crush. On the contrary, it’s gotten worse. I find myself making up the stupidest reasons to text him, and checking the weather report multiple times a day, hoping for rain and not as a means to end the drought.
Stupid sunny Southern California. Even more stupid me to set this boundary of limiting my time with Garrett. Even if I know it’s for the best, I don’t like it. This experience may be about pushing my boundaries, but it’s also about adhering to the new ones I’ve set. The ones in place to avoid past mistakes.
“Hey,” Garrett says, reaching us.
“Hey.” I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping to slap down the flutter in my chest. The man says, “hey” and I may fucking swoon.I am so pathetic.“So, what shirt did he talk you into wearing?”
“May I?” He reaches out and takes my hand, and I comply.
He takes my fingers and brushes them across his chest. The swooning may commence at any minute, and not just by the rock-hard feel of his sculpted chest, but from the raised letters spelling outService Human.
Laughter skips out of me. “Oh my god! How?”
“The woman I commissioned for your Christmas card made it.”
It’s standard practice for blind/guide duos to wear special shirts to let other runners know. It helps keep everyone safe on the course. I have a shirt that saysWatch Out: Blind Girl in Motionthat my parents gave me for Christmas. They can’t be here today, but plan to come down for the marathon.
“Nice, and you got it in pink. Jensen’s favorite color,” Anker says with a loudslapagainst Garrett’s back.
“This wasn’t Anker’s doing? You did this?” A gooeyness fills my chest at that.
“I also got you one,” he says bashfully as he hands me a gift bag. “I know you have the shirt from your parents, but this won’t be our last race.”
The way “this won’t be our last race” thrums within me drowns out the chaotic cacophony around us. Today is our first race. We have our second 10K in the spring and the half marathon in the summer before I transition to train with Anker. Something in the way he says it promises more than just those, or it may be the story I’m telling myself. I can’t ignore the worry nipping inside me that I may be projecting meaning on something that is just a gift from a thoughtful man
Just enjoy the moment.I swallow those worries, choosing to deal with them during my next Dr. Nor session.
“This is so sweet. Thank you.” I pull the shirt out of the bag and swipe my fingers over the tactile letters readingBlind Queen.
“Thought it was fitting, since I’m your service human,” he says, a wry expression plays in his tease.
“Thank you, my dear subject. Your queen approves,” I hum, channeling my best impression of Kayla’s posh English accent.
“Excellent accent, Jensen,” Miles drawls from nearby, causing me to turn towards his voice.
My head tilts. “Miles? What are you doing here?”
“Kayla mentioned you were racing today, so I thought I would come by to cheer you on. That’s what friends do after all.”
It is something friends do. I’m just shocked Miles is that type of friend. Besides a few chats at the coffee shop on campus and the one time he’d tagged along with Kayla for lunch with me and Catherine, our interactions have been minimal since we agreed to be just friends.
“Didn’t realize friends bring other friends red roses,” Garrett mutters.
“This friend does.” Miles’s retort is snide. “These are for you, luv.” He leans in, pressing a peck to my cheek before handing me a bouquet.
“Thanks.” I bring them up to my nose, inhaling deeply to capture their sweet perfume. “This is lovely.”
“You really are the queen with men just coming to pay tribute. I’m a little jealous.” Anker tips his head toward Garrett. “In five years of friendship, you’ve never brought me flowers before a race.”
“Flowers are impractical,” Garrett grumbles.
